Chapter 4
Walls and Schedules
Grayson
Istay in my room for the rest of the evening.
Not because I'm tired. Because if I go back downstairs, I might say something I can't take back.
I pace, hands shoved in my pockets, running through the same loop in my head.
Maxwell bringing his assistant to town was bad enough. But living in the same cabin? Sharing space?
What on earth was he thinking this time?
Everything about her grates against my nerves. The bubbly tone that never dims. The endless chatter, even when I'm clearly not listening. The colorful accessories scattered across every surface like a glitter bomb went off.
The way she narrates everything she does. Like she's hosting a cooking show for an invisible audience.
She's the exact opposite of what I need. Silence. Order. Distance.
I came to this cabin to escape noise. To escape people who demand things from me. To stop performing a version of myself I don't recognize anymore.
And Maxwell dropped sunshine personified on my doorstep.
I sit on the edge of my bed and run a hand through my hair.
Two months. I just have to survive two months.
Then she goes back to the city, back to her iced caramel lattes and team meetings and whatever else fills her world. And I get my peace back.
I can do this.
—
Later that night, I head to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
I push the door open and stop dead.
There's a color-coded schedule taped to the mirror. Glitter-pen stars. Little doodles of suns and moons. Morning Routine: 6:30–7:15 AM. Evening Routine: 8:00–8:45 PM.
I stare at it for a long moment, my jaw tightening with every second.
Then I rip it off the mirror, crumple it in my fist, and drop it in the trash.
"Does any adult actually use glitter pens?" I mutter.
I brush my teeth with more force than necessary.
This is my bathroom. My cabin. My space.
She's been here less than twenty-four hours.
—
Morning comes too fast.
I wake up at six-thirty. My internal clock doesn't need an alarm.
I head to the bathroom, ready to shower and start my day.
The door is closed. Water running. Humming from inside.
I check my watch. Six forty-five.
Against all logic, I'm standing outside my own bathroom at exactly the time her ridiculous schedule said she'd be in it.
I grumble at myself, feeling ridiculous.
Ten minutes pass. The humming turns to singing. Something I half-recognize from the radio.
I knock. Hard.
"Patience is a virtue, mountain man!" she calls, completely unbothered.
I lean against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Ten more minutes.
I bang on the door again.
The water shuts off.
A few seconds later, the door opens.
Kate stands there in just a towel. Shoulders bare. Hair wet and dark and dripping. The towel tucked just above her chest.
My brain goes completely blank.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
She grins, completely unfazed. "If you're rushing, I can turn around. Promise I won't peek."
I drag my eyes back to her face. "Just finish up."
Nothing comes out of my mouth after that. I expect silence. Maybe even a hint of guilt.
Instead—
She keeps talking.
About the lack of a hair dryer. About whether the general store in town sells them. About ordering things online in a town this small.
I stand in the hallway, silently fuming, while she takes another thirty full minutes.
She finally emerges in leggings and an oversized sweater, hair still damp, smelling like vanilla and something floral.
"All yours, mountain man," she says, squeezing past me in the narrow hallway.
Her arm brushes mine.
That same electric spark from yesterday shoots through me.
I ignore it and lock myself in the bathroom.
—
After showering and dressing, I head downstairs.
The smell hits me at the bottom step.
Warm pancakes. Toasted almonds. Fresh coffee.
I walk into the kitchen and stop.
Simple pancakes stacked neatly. No berries. No fancy toppings. Just a light drizzle of honey and a careful attempt at presentation.
Kate is at the stove, still humming, dancing in fuzzy socks, completely in her own world.
I walk in like a thundercloud.
She glances up and smiles. "Morning. I made breakfast. Hope you like pancakes."
I grunt.
She studies me for a beat, then laughs. "You look like you just lost a staring contest with a bear."
Another grunt.
She smirks and mutters, "Grumpasaurus confirmed."
I pour myself fresh coffee and lean against the counter. I don't touch the food.
Kate shrugs. "More for me, I guess." She sits down and eats both plates without another word.
I move to the living room with my coffee and turn on the small wall-mounted TV. Local news. Weather. Anything to fill the silence she's working so hard to break.
A few minutes later, she appears near the window, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Have you seen my laptop charger? I left it on the table last night."
I barely look at her. "If I moved it, I would've tossed it into the lake."
She gasps. "You did not."
"Didn't say I did. Just said I would."
"You're impossible."
"You're loud."
"I'm friendly."
"You're intrusive."
"I'm just trying to be nice!"
"I didn't ask you to be."
We go back and forth for a few minutes. Her getting more animated. Me staying perfectly still. It's almost entertaining.
Almost.
Then a loud crack of thunder splits the air outside.
The cabin lights flicker.
Kate lets out a startled scream and grabs my arm without thinking.
Reflexively, I pull her in. My arms wrap around her back before my brain catches up.
For a few seconds, we're too close.
Her breath warm against my chest. Her hair smelling like vanilla and rain.
Then I realize what I'm doing and let go, stepping back.
She blinks up at me, cheeks flushed. "Sorry. Thunder. I don't like thunder."
"It's fine," I say stiffly.
Another crack rolls through the valley.
The rain starts. Heavy and steady, drumming against the roof and windows.
It doesn't stop.
It pours from morning into afternoon. No leaving. No errands. No escape.
We're trapped inside together.
Kate spends most of the day curled on the couch with a book. I can tell the storm is getting to her more than she's letting on. She keeps glancing at the windows. Her foot bounces against the cushion.
I find excuses to move between rooms. Give her space. Give myself space.
By late afternoon, the sky has gone dark too early. The storm shows no sign of letting up.
I'm upstairs when I hear her in the kitchen. Pots and pans. The fridge opening and closing. She's humming again, trying to keep herself busy.
I stay where I am.
Then the lights flicker once.
And go out completely.
The cabin plunges into darkness.
A beat of silence.
Then Kate screams.
"Okay, nope! Absolutely not!"
I'm already on my feet.
I know this cabin like the back of my hand. Every creaky floorboard, every corner, every step on these stairs. I move through the dark without hesitating, one hand trailing the wall for balance.
Thunder rolls again, closer now, rattling the windows.
"Kate?" I call out.
"Kitchen!" Her voice is shaky. "I can't see anything. Something fell and I can't find it and—"
"Stay put. Don't move. You might step on whatever you dropped."
"This is not okay. This is really not okay." She's talking fast now, the bubbly chatter replaced with real panic. "I hate the dark. I really, really hate the dark. Don't cabins have emergency lights? Shouldn't there be emergency lights?"
Her breathing is getting faster. She's spiraling.
I move quicker.
I reach the kitchen doorway and stretch my hands out. My palm connects with her arm. She grabs onto me with both hands, fingers digging into my shirt.
"It's me," I say, keeping my voice low and steady. "You're okay."
"I'm not okay. I'm very much not okay." Her voice is muffled against my chest. "I told you. I hate the dark. I really, really hate the dark."
She's trembling. Her whole body shaking.
Something in my chest tightens. A protective instinct I haven't felt in a long time.
I rest one hand on her back. Steady. Grounding. "The power's out because of the storm. It happens up here. It'll come back on."
"When?"
"Could be an hour. Could be longer." I pause, feeling her grip tighten. "But I have flashlights and candles. We'll get some light going."
She doesn't let go. If anything, she holds on tighter.
Another crack of thunder shakes the cabin. She lets out a small whimper and presses her face against my shoulder.
I stand there in the dark kitchen, this woman I barely know clinging to me like I'm the only solid thing in the world.
And I realize something.
I don't want to let go either.
Not yet.
"Don't leave me alone," she whispers. "Please."
It's not a demand. It's a plea. Honest and scared and completely unfiltered.
I feel something give way. All those walls, all that distance I've kept since she arrived—slipping in the dark.
"I won't," I say. "I'm right here."
And I mean it.